On his seventeenth birthday, Jojo wishes on a green streak in the Las Vegas sky for something real to happen.

He gets his wish.

The beings that appear in his backyard don't probe. They don't invade. They curate-and they find humanity's inefficiency revolting. Their philosophy of "uhhsthetic" demands perfect loops, closed narratives, nothing wasted. Jojo, with his IBS, his Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and his tendency to make messes, is the most un-uhhsthetic thing they've ever encountered.

What follows is a first-contact story where the real conflict isn't survival-it's whether chaos has value in a universe obsessed with elegance.